


Finish Me

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Bloodplay, Collars, Knifeplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-11
Updated: 2012-06-11
Packaged: 2017-11-07 12:00:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/430938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robb Stark is corrupted by his new Hand, and eventually undone.  A combination of many Robb/Roose prompts at the asoiafkinkmeme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Finish Me

It was easier than he’d initially thought, relinquishing control to another, but Robb felt nothing but relief as he allowed Lord Bolton to whisper in his ear. Of course, he did not take every suggestion into consideration, but as time wore on and as the battles became more and more difficult, the older man’s advice seemed natural, almost right. So Robb yielded, Robb relented. And Robb hated himself for it. 

“We cannot save them all, Your Grace.” Although Roose Bolton’s voice was soft and courteous, the look in his eyes was anything but. It was as unyielding as the steel that he toyed with, turning a knife between his fingers, behaving as if this discussion meant as little to him as tavern banter. “Better to save our own men, instead of squandering our resources on these…cubs.” He permitted a slight look of disdain to mar his usually smooth features. 

“But we cannot just let them die, Lord Bolton. They are wounded men, and require help, regardless of whose banner they bore.” But his protests rang hollow. Robb’s head ached, and worse yet, his heart ached. 

He had no idea what to do. 

*

“I am not accustomed to having my advice called into question.” Lord Bolton did not raise his voice, but there was an edge to it that Robb had never heard. His breath hitched in his throat as Bolton drew close, his gloved hand taking hold of Robb’s chin, lifting it up so that he had no choice but to face the other man. “You will do well to remember, Your Grace,” and he drew the words out sneeringly, robbing them of any real weight, “that before you took me into your confidence, you were waging a losing war. You were still clinging to your mother’s skirts.”

Robb drew back, eyes flashing. 

“You were still chasing after…camp followers…rather than honoring your promises to your sworn bannermen.” And here Lord Bolton laughed, which was even more frightening than the small flash of rage that Robb had seen. “You do realize that without the Freys’ numbers, you would be lost against the Lannister troops? Not to mention the Tyrells. Grasping though they be, they are numerous.” 

“I am sorry,” Robb said, biting his lip. “Lord Bolton. I was…wrong to question you.”

Bolton nodded then. “That you were, Your Grace. But I do understand. Just say the word, and I shall yield. You may find yourself another Hand, someone more in line with your own philosophies. I shall be content to serve as your bannerman.”

Robb shook his head. Despite his distaste for Roose Bolton’s methods, he knew that it would cost him the Freys and the Twins. After all, Lord Bolton, like himself, was set to wed one of Lord Walder’s granddaughters, and his negotiations had calmed the truculent old man when rumors concerning the Volantine girl had reached his deaf old ears. And now that he’d banished his mother, he really did not have anyone to trust. And Bolton had been there from the beginning, volunteering to lead the van, even if Robb had given it to another man. He had yielded then, courteous and pragmatic, willing to dirty his hands where other men would have quailed. 

“I owe you a great deal,” Robb said, his voice barely a whisper. 

“That you do,” Bolton said softly, allowing his hand to drop onto Robb’s shoulder. “Your Grace.”

Robb smiled, and it was sickly but sincere. “Put them to death then,” he said, unable to meet the other man’s eyes. 

“All of them, Your Grace? There are so many,” Bolton said, almost mockingly. 

Robb raised a hand. “All of them. And send one of their heads back to Tywin Lannister.” 

Bolton smiled at that. “I will see it done. Personally.” 

He turned to go, and when he had, it was only then that Robb permitted himself to relax, his face twisted in a grimace at what he’d done. But he put it aside, thinking instead of how much easier it would go for his own wounded when their meager supplies were not squandered on enemy prisoners. 

*

That night, he allowed Bolton to come to him, or at least that is how he justified it to himself. They didn’t speak, Robb’s face flushed red as the older man bent him over the bed and thrust against him, his hands raising bruises on Robb’s shoulders as he braced himself against his body, the act itself, painful and degrading, serving as a further punishment for a disobedience that should have been checked. And when Bolton had spent himself and had his pleasure, Robb turned to him almost pleading for release, his cock swollen, a subtle sickness in the pit of his stomach. Bolton merely stared at him, baring his teeth in what might have passed for a smile, but was more like a snarl. 

“Please,” Robb said then, eyes wide. He put his hand on Roose Bolton’s shoulder, still clad in the leather jerkin of the battlefield. Robb was unclad, his skin all over with goosepimples, traces of his boyhood betrayed in the narrow breadth of his shoulders and hips, and the awkward way that he held himself. He moaned as Bolton pulled him onto the bed, his hand encircling Robb with a proprietary air, his other reaching for the knife at his belt. It was in a way ludicrous that he was still completely clothed, but to Robb, it seemed very matter of course. He quailed a bit to see the way that the candlelight caught the metal, making it gleam in the low light of Robb’s tent, but he secretly thrilled to it, closing his eyes as Bolton slid the blade against his throat, almost idly guiding the point in the soft, vulnerable notch of Robb’s clavicle, grazing the skin, reddening it, yet not marking it. He slid it down Robb’s chest and traced the outline of his ribcage, the edge sliding neatly over each rib, cooling the feverish flesh beneath it. He paused it over Robb’s heart, teasingly pressing the blade so that a small trickle of blood began to flow down Robb’s chest.

Robb felt himself stiffen and groaned with the effort of holding back. He knew that it would only anger Bolton if he did not restrain himself, and while part of him longed for his Hand to finally snap, to vent the rage that he imagined laid beneath his usually silent surface, to use him, to wound him, he was terrified. Terrified that Roose Bolton might just go too far, and terrified that he, Robb, would enjoy it, would beg for it, would completely unman himself. 

“Oh, please,” Robb sighed again, unable to stop himself. 

Bolton slid the knife back to his throat, pressing the blade against the vulnerable flesh there. “Please?” he said softly. “That my King should beg me-“ but he did not continue. He merely stared at Robb for the longest time, his hand still loosely grasping Robb’s cock, the other positioning the knife. “But what should I expect from a beardless boy who clutches himself and sobs for his father?”

“My father was a fine man, a better man than-” but Bolton’s hand connecting with his face stilled his words. It was idly done, an open-handed blow, but it was powerful nonetheless. He’d released Robb to strike him, and despite the surprise and the humiliation, it did nothing to wilt his erection. In fact, he only felt harder, closer to the edge. 

“Your Grace,” Bolton hissed in his ear, his fingers gently tracing the reddened mark that his hand had left on Robb’s cheek. “I do not care to be interrupted.” His lips brushed the tender spot then, and Robb was shocked at the heat that emanated from them. He’d imagined Bolton to be carved from ice, from stone, but his breath burned against him. “Now what were you saying about your father?” 

“I wasn’t,” Robb moaned. “My Lord.” 

Bolton smiled then, a thin smile that did not meet his eyes, their piercing gaze fixed on Robb, who squirmed under it like a child. “Get on your knees, boy.” His words were gentle, but underneath, there was a harsh threat. “Your knees,” he repeated.

“Finish me,” Robb said then, before he could help himself. “Gods, please. My Lord, finish me.”

Bolton laid down the knife then, taking Robb in hand and stroking him then, his touch subtle, restrained, his hands cold in the night air. But none of it mattered. What did was the release, and he came weakly, shuddering, tears streaming down his face. 

The look on Bolton’s face was murderous, but only for a moment. It was soon a mask again, and as Robb lay all a-tangle, he reached out a hand, brushing hair from Robb’s sweaty forehead. 

“You must tell me,” he murmured then, his hand trailing down Robb’s chest, “what you intend to do about this Southron problem.” Robb did not respond, but closed his eyes, and shuddered as the other man lightly brushed cold fingers against his chest. “I know that you’ve been brooding over it.” 

“What of it then?” Robb said just as softly. “I shall speak of it when I am ready.”

Lord Bolton frowned. “I am merely doing my part to aid you, Your Grace. After all, you should seek my council. If I am to advise you, then I must know what you are thinking.”

Robb frowned then. “I should have no secrets from you?” 

Bolton laughed softly, his hand tightening on his king. “You should not. It would do you well to remember some old words that my father passed down to me, and now, I bid you heed them as I did.”

Robb looked at him then, expectantly. 

“A naked man has few secrets,” and Bolton’s eyes ran down his nude form. Robb felt his cheeks color. “But a flayed man,” Bolton whispered, bringing the knife along Robb’s torso again, “has none.” 

Robb said nothing, merely nodding, pulling on his clothing, silently preparing himself for another sleepless night. Finally he turned to Bolton. “You are dismissed, Lord Hand,” he said, the authority creeping into his voice once more. “Good night, my Lord.”

“I bid you goodnight, Your Grace,” Bolton said then. “Sleep well.”

*

“I can not and will not,” Robb said, his voice hard, yet controlled. He lowered his head, staring at Bolton. It was a mannerism that he’d absorbed from his Hand, that of quietly waiting, penetrating another with his eyes until they squirmed, unnerved, waiting for them to undo themselves. 

Unfortunately, it did not work on Roose Bolton. 

“You must,” he said plainly. “There is no other way. Do you not wish to save your sisters?”

“Tywin Lannister will not be cowed that easily.”

Bolton raised an eyebrow. “Leave Lord Tywin to me. You will sit and keep silent, regardless of what you hear.”

“Is that wise?” Robb said then, doubts forming in his mind. 

“It is the only way,” Lord Bolton said as he departed.

*

But things did not go as Robb had anticipated. He and Bolton had ridden to meet Lord Tywin in the Riverlands, near the Twins, and the boy king took its close location as a bad omen. In this, he was not mistaken. They met, he and Lord Tywin, and Robb’s Hand, in secret, and that night, the king was undone. 

“An alliance would prove most convenient,” Roose Bolton said to Tywin Lannister, their eyes meeting over the treating table. “Return the Stark girls to us, and we would see to reuniting you with what has been taken from you.”

Tywin did not flinch. “My son,” he said baldly. Although his voice was hard, the tension in his hands as they gripped the old wood and the way his mouth was cast betrayed him. “Jaime.”

Bolton nodded. “And of course, there will be no more King in the North.”

Robb flinched, and Roose Bolton ignored it. 

“Of course.” 

“I feel that Warden is sufficient.” 

And when Tywin signed the paper naming Bolton the Warden of the North, Robb knew that he had been tricked, knew that his simple belief in every man’s honor had been nothing but foolishness, and when he felt Roose Bolton’s hands encircle his neck, he knew that time was short. What happened next only served to further his humiliation and inflame his rage, rage he’d never be permitted to loose.

Tywin Lannister looked at Robb pointedly, and then at Bolton. “What should be done with the boy?” His tone was cruel, and yet there was a hint of amusement in it that Robb had never heard in all his time in treating with the Lannisters. 

Bolton smiled that curiously disturbing smile of his. “I shall see to it, Lord Tywin. You need not trouble yourself.”

And when Roose Bolton slid the leather collar around the boy’s neck, he felt him shudder under his fingers. Bolton smiled then, and although it was more a baring of teeth than anything else, he was genuinely pleased. “We must restrain these wolves,” he said to Lord Tywin over his former king’s head, noting the look of distaste on the other man’s face, “lest they turn on us.” Roose’s fingers clasped the buckle, tightening it until the boy gasped. “This will do,” he said, satisfied at last.


End file.
